


Sinew

by DreadPirateRoberts



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Extreme Makeover: Cannibal Edition, Haircuts, M/M, Post-Finale, Tattoos, working out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 19:43:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7905220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreadPirateRoberts/pseuds/DreadPirateRoberts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fall changed them both, and Will never wanted to be weak again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sinew

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a bit of a sucker for fics where the characters go through some kind of physical transformation, and I really wanted more like that in Hannibal fandom so thought I'd try writing something. It's been a while!

The fall left them shattered. 

Of course, such things were to be expected when one chose to throw themselves off a crumbling cliff-edge and into the dark recesses of the jagged waters below, yet Will still found the pain to be a shock to his system. The pain was all he really remembered. He had never been able to recall the events that subsequently took place: Chiyoh emerging from the black waves on a boat with medical supplies and enough weapons to keep the FBI at bay dragging him and Hannibal from the sea; the journey of unknown length to their new home in the mountains of somewhere else; the delirium of pain eased with high doses of morphine that kept him in a dreamless sleep for most of his recovery. By the time lucidity kicked it – or as much as Will’s brain was willing to accommodate such a notion – his bones were set, the bruises faded into a sickly yellow, and the scar all sewn up.

The scar – the newest one, anyway. A lightning bolt of fury etched into the side of his face, the signature of rage. The dragon’s claw. Smiling still tugged uncomfortably and he’d never quite be able to blend into a crowd, but the broken symmetry had a certain appeal to him. Some hid behind glasses and sullenness in an effort to keep the demons at bay; others concealed their nature with the truth. Will found, after years of a failing façade, that he finally preferred the latter option.

Hannibal, for his efforts, had struggled with recovery too, although when questioned on the subject he would simply smile – so enigmatic and demure and blatantly obvious to Will – and say everything had been ‘manageable’. Chiyoh had disagreed: Bullet removals, crushed ribs, torn ligaments and major blood loss did not qualify as manageable in her book, but Hannibal had been in charge, as always, and she assisted him in all his duties with her protests silent.

Will had seen the extent of the damage one morning when Hannibal came out of the shower and into the hallway. Constellations of scars spread across his torso, some small like animal bites, others like caverns of scar tissue on a plain of skin. Will couldn’t see the remnants of the Verger farm on his back but he knew they were there. He’d thought about it often. The surgical precision of the scars on his wrists – a gift from will by way of Matthew Brown, stood out like beams of light. Across his collarbone lay a string-like mark – thin and barely noticeable unless you knew where to look. That one was definitely not a new addition, and before Will could wonder of its origins, Hannibal spoke up.

“Will? He asked, waking the staring man from his closed mind. The pair had not talked of their situation since the fall – focus on recovery, had been Hannibal’s insistence, and Will could hardly protest – but the separate rooms and three square meals a day shared across the rustic kitchen table of their little house in the woods suggested their connections ran far deeper than mere acquaintances.

“Uh, yeah, sorry,” Will stammered back, walking back to his room as fast as his reconstructed form would carry him. Hannibal’s gentle hand pressed against his chest and kept him in place as he slowly pulled back the neck of his t-shirt to reveal his old police force injury. The first of many.

“And now we match,” Hannibal replied, his tone so utterly sincere that it almost floored Will. His gaze returned to Hannibal’s bare chest, and indeed, there was a scar similar to his. It could have come from anywhere – the Dragon, the fall, some slip-up during the rescue – but its origin mattered less than the mirror image it created between them. Will stumbled for a response – his face unable to quite stretch to meet the words he needed – but Hannibal’s hand moved to his face and trailed the scar left there. The dragon’s wrath. Abrasive like ripped up paper glued back together as best as possible; sweet pink and off-colour white against the paleness of skin that hadn’t seen the sun in some time; crumbling clay achingly constructed with loving hands. Hannibal would tell Will many times over the coming years that this was their best work, and over time Will would believe it.

As time passed and Chiyoh left the pair to their own devices, they plotted a future. The cabin Will had grown to love so much made for a good home, far away from prying eyes yet close enough to the small mountain town to keep them supplied with the necessities. The locals didn’t ask questions, and the assumptions they came to on their own were satisfying enough to keep them out of the pair’s business. They knew then simply as Thomas and Robert.

Once Will’s body had returned to optimum condition, he swore he would never be weak again. Chores and maintenance work around their ramshackle cabin kept him fit, while military style drills focused his mind and body whenever he could scrape out a quick minute during the day. With no job or responsibilities and the threat of the FBI ever constant, Will had plenty of time to dedicate to self-preservation.

Over time, his arms became lean, his chest wiry with muscle, and his hands toughened by thick skin and scars. The softness of his features that had plagued him for so long, the youthfulness that intrigued so many souls from a distance, sharpened like flint until he finally looked his age for the first time in too long. The scar could never truly be concealed, but the thick beard he grew helped; the dark hair rough like wire wool peppered with streaks of grey and white that increased over time. A visit into town for the week’s food supplies – a duty Will was still shocked Hannibal had worthily bestowed upon him – found him drawn to the local barbers. The establishment, a decidedly utilitarian affair with little natural light and cracked mirrors across from wonky chairs, had been empty when arrived, except for the gruff owner, who eyed him with suspicion before inviting him to sit down. With little instruction from Will, the barber sheared him of his curls and trimmed his beard into something that could be described as neat. The effect had been instantaneous – no more Will Graham. Instead, the shaven headed, bearded man with the sharp eyes and body like a back-street fighter was Tom.

Hannibal never commented on Will’s metamorphosis, although the occasional smile of approval and lingering hand across his newly muscled form suggested he liked what he saw. Then again, Hannibal had started to go through some changes too. He did more manual labour than Will thought he was used to, felling trees for firewood and shoveling snow, and his athletic form filled out with muscle and a warm layer of fat. The straw colour of his hair made way for a full salt and pepper look that grew long enough to sweep across his face when he moved. Eventually it became long enough to tie back, and the newly relaxed Hannibal found himself wearing the look casually tied into a bun. Will made more than a few gentle mocking references to ‘manbuns’, but the shock of a casual Dr Lecter made him wonder if he could ever imagine the man using that moniker ever again.

Eventually, word reached the area that the authorities were on the hunt for an infamous pair of killers, and Hannibal and Will decided it was time to move. The ever resourceful Chiyoh assisted in helping them flee to Argentina – Hannibal’s idea, he said the country would suit Will well. City life had its advantages and Will found himself warming to his surroundings and the freedom offered by crowded anonymity. Two bedrooms became one, although the world of that one bed moved slower than desired. The first week of sleep came with each man lying on the edges, like magnets unable to touch. Eventually, closeness emerged, hands curled together, a head found solace on a welcoming shoulder, and soon Will found himself unable to nod off without the touch of Hannibal’s skin against his.

News of the Murder Husbands emerged from every corner of the globe – everyone seemed to believe the pair were on a cannibalistic rampage in their back-yard, while the ever unappealing duo of Lounds and Chilton, a man even harder to kill than the pair of them, pumped out salacious story after story to keep the headlines fresh and the royalty cheques cashing. Yet none of that sound and fury found its way to their sliver of peace. The area’s new doctor and his trainer husband were welcomed with the usual questions but nobody asked about the scars. That would be too rude.

Will felt something eerily close to bliss in this new life: A partner of incomparable adoration, an occupation of focus and tangible goals, a growing circle of acquaintances who encouraged him in his stuttering Spanish and found charm in his gruffness. A stray dog even found her way into the fold, although Hannibal never could get used to calling the mutt “Freddie”. It felt a little on the nose for his tastes.

And their tastes, of course, returned. Will never questioned the source of the meat that filled their freezer. He had long since given up right to moral high-ground on that subject, and found his tastebuds welcomed the return of vibrant flavour, having been dulled through years of bland cooking. Truly Hannibal had remade the teacup, although the doctor, whose wardrobe had filled with wrinkled shirts and hand-knitted sweaters and, lord help us all, jeans, could probably say the same thing about himself with Will.

Yet something felt unfinished for Will, some dissenting voice in his head informed him that something remained unwritten. He worked out more until his shirts struggled to hold in his forearms; he switched to clothing that revealed his hard work to curious customers and passers-by; his beard thickened like wild weeds and barber visits gave way to a close razor that removed all follicle traces on his head until only smoothness remained; even his voice seemed to evolve with the changes until he spoke with a roughness of a man who had grown sick of screaming. Nothing of the old Will Graham remained but the scars.

Inspiration struck him on a long night’s walk through the city. The neon glow of a store sign with an illuminated window drew him near until he saw what filled it – photographs of elaborate tattoo work and the bodies they adorned. As if by holy command, Will walked inside and a plan started forming.

He left for work one morning as always, with a kiss on Hannibal’s cheek and wishes for a good day, but he had already called in sick and found himself at the parlour, giving instructions in improved Spanish as he lay on his stomach and left the cathartic sting of the needle do its work. The artist informed him that the session would take eight hours, although Will hardly felt the time past. The pain had been just too engrossing.

As expected, Hannibal had been waiting on him when he arrived back home to their apartment. Will had been surprised that Hannibal hadn’t figured out his deception when he left that morning, but now it seemed that he had. He didn’t seem mad. The new Hannibal never seemed even irate. He smiled too much for that. Yet the worry on his face was evident. They didn’t need to hide things from one another now so why the secrecy, he asked?

Without a word, Will pulled open his jacket and let it fall to the floor. The looseness of his tank top did nothing to conceal his increase in mass or the patchwork of bandages covering his back from neck to waist. He turned to let Hannibal see the wrapping, and silently invited him to reveal the surprise. With tentative touches, so hesitant and so unlike Hannibal, he pulled away the medical tape and unveiled the masterpiece.

His barely audible gasp spoke volumes. The perfectly symmetrical crown of black antlers started on his shoulders and moved down to the head of an ebony figure, free of hair and ears and all but shadows of eyes and a mouth, with its head atop a skeletal body that stopped where Will’s underwear began. Feathers of impeccable detail surrounded the figure, like Autumn leaves from the sky. No other colours had been used but Hannibal could swear he saw every part of the spectrum etched onto the achingly constructed form in front of his. The work was still raw but he couldn’t deny himself the pleasure of a touch, made all the more enticing by Will’s quiet moan. Hannibal turned him around by the shoulder with more force, his thumb rubbing against that debut scar while his other hand searched through the thick hair for the dragon’s gift.

“It’s done,” Will said. “I’m complete.”


End file.
